Just…Don't
by Swirling Dreams
Summary: They were looking for something, something for some case. John wasn't even going to pretend that he knew what it was. Sherlock dragged him out so quickly he couldn't always know. But what happened…scared John more than his entire time in Afghanistan.


Hello everybody, this one is a little sad (sometimes the bad things just overflow sometimes, you know?), but inspired by a picture I saw on deviantart, http:/dauntingfire. /art/Sherlock-BBC-Just-don-t-179070173?q=boost%3Apopular%20sherlock%20john&qo=23 (just get rid of the spaces). It is amazing, their artwork is SO GOOD! Seriously, go check them out, and I'm sure I'll be writing more things inspired by their stuff. Oh, and also, I listened to "Alejandro" by Lady Gaga when I wrote this (so there's a little allusion to it in the dialogue).

Disclaimer: You know I was reading a cool little article saying that already makes it explicitly clear in **their** legal disclaimers that we don't own this stuff. So I thought, "then why the hell do I have to write one?"

So I'm not this time. Ha ha. Enjoy.

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><p>It had been one of the hardest things John had ever had to deal with.<p>

They had been looking for something. Close to the railroad tracks they had visited before to look for that Chinese cipher. It was close to midnight. John couldn't even remember what they had been looking for specifically, hell, Sherlock dragged him out of the flat so fast that he didn't always know what they were doing or where they were going until they got there and started doing it (luckily for him Sherlock was always too absorbed in the adrenaline rush of the new lead to notice when this happened).

Whatever they had been looking for didn't really matter. It was what had happened while they were looking that did.

After about 15 minutes of individual searching, Sherlock had texted John telling him that they needed to meet back up at the bridge. He found Sherlock easily enough, pacing back and forth, probably going over some detail of the case that John didn't know. He must've heard the gravel crunching under his feet because he looked up before John could say anything to indicate his arrival.

Sherlock tilted his head towards the underpass, signaling for John to follow him. And he did so, coming up about a foot behind him and on his left side. He did it without even thinking about it, because he wasn't expecting anything. That's really what scared John the most, how random it all was.

It all happened in about five seconds. After walking a couple of yards, Sherlock whipped around as if he had spotted something on the ground. But instead of bending down to examine some small object that could be the key to solving their case, he placed his hands on John's shoulders. Sherlock looked pained, like he was trying to decide something.

"What's wro–" John started, but Sherlock pushed him backwards into the wall a few feet away.

When John's body made contact, Sherlock braced himself by putting his right arm against the wall. His left hand came up to John's neck, his fingers curling gently around it, like he was going to pull him in to meet his lips.

"What **are** you doing?" John questioned, breathless from hitting the wall and the shock of what had happened.

Sherlock looked straight into his eyes. But he didn't say anything.

"Sherlock! Answer me!" It was not a request.

"John…" A barely audible whisper, but his lips were so close to his ear that John felt like Sherlock had poured the words directly into his head. He felt Sherlock take a huge breath. It felt like he was completely covered–Sherlock's hips pressed into him, his arms locked him in, his torso covered his chest, his legs leaned forward in a sort of standing lunge. All of it made it impossible for John to break free.

What had gotten into him? Was it a drugs thing? Was he high?

What the hell was Sherlock doing?

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing?"

"John, please…" His voice sounded so hoarse. "I just want to try."

"Try what?" He shouted, he was panicking now, because despite his question, he was almost certain that he knew what Sherlock wanted to try.

"Us. I have never–believe me, **never**–wanted to do anything so badly. It's you."

"Sherlock–" His voice stuck in his throat when the hand around his neck moved up to stroke his cheek. "No." He said firmly, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He was looking straight into John's eyes, and even if he hadn't been pinned against a wall, he still would've felt trapped just by the mere, hungry, ravenous haze that consumed Sherlock's flint eyes.

Sherlock moved forward, pressing John even further against the wall. The contrast between the two sensations–the ice cold of the brick on his back and the intimate warmth from Sherlock–made John shiver.

"John, I know that I am not an ideal mate, but I do believe that no other person, that none of your girlfriends have ever seen you the way I do. And I don't think they ever will, John. Because they're too stupid." John continued to struggle against Sherlock's body and his words (however, he wasn't entirely sure if it was somehow a backhanded compliment or not).

Why couldn't he bring himself to just shove Sherlock off of him? He was a soldier, and by no means a weak one. Why didn't he just push him back or punch him?

Because he was Sherlock Holmes. His closest friend. He couldn't bring himself to harm him. And he didn't think Sherlock would actually hurt him, but it didn't mean that he wasn't scared.

"Stop…" He just wanted him to stop. His words, his body, everything. His heart was beating so hard he could feel it reverberating in his chest.

Sherlock craned his neck so that their foreheads touched. His lips were so close now, and it only served to increase John's heart. He parted his lips, and he could feel Sherlock's breath on his face when he spoke.

"Please." They both said at the same time.

"Just let me go."

"Just let me try."

Again, at the same time.

John refused to cry, but he could feel his throat thickening–his flat mate and closest friend had him pressed against a wall, he was forcing himself on him. It was horrifying to him.

"Sherlock…stop. Please…" His voice finally cracked.

And Sherlock did stop. It must've been his voice that finally made it sink in. He looked into John's eyes, and he saw fear, and panic, and hurt. It broke his heart. He thought John might be reluctant, but…not like this.

He didn't say anything, but instead, he slowly untangled himself from John, and stepped back from the wall. John felt weird, not feeling him anymore. And for a moment, he didn't even move, and then he sank to the ground.

"John, I–" Sherlock began timidly.

John (rather violently) thrust out his hand, quite plainly telling him to stop talking. And with that, he got up and walked off.

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><p>As John sat in the cab on the way to Baker Street, he couldn't help but worry about Sherlock. He hated him doing things like this alone–what if someone attacked him? He knew he shouldn't be worrying about a man who had just pushed him up against a wall, but this wasn't just some other creepy bloke on the street, it was his friend.<p>

The cab pulled up to the door, and John got out. No tip. He was too upset to remember. Up the stairs, through the door, he grabbed some food and water and headed straight for his room. He was planning on avoiding Sherlock for at least the next three days. He felt so betrayed and violated. How could he do this? Why did the most brilliant and observant man on the planet not stop when he saw how upset he was?

But despite everything that had happened, what disturbed John the most was that even though he had been terrified, he had enjoyed it.

Every **bloody** second of it.

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><p>I hope you all enjoyed it, and don't forget to review, and check out my other stories please.<p> 


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